


a delicate balance

by thescyfychannel



Category: Homestuck
Genre: BDSM, Bondage, Cronus overestimates himself, F/F, F/M, Femdom, Gags, Gillplay, Hate Sex, Multi, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Overstimulation, Pitch Romance, Sex Toys, Suspension, Throat Fucking, Vibrators, Vibrators in Gills, hatefucking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-12
Updated: 2018-07-12
Packaged: 2019-06-09 10:08:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,934
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15265179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thescyfychannel/pseuds/thescyfychannel
Summary: You found ways to pass the first eternity. There are more pleasant ones in store for the next.





	a delicate balance

**Author's Note:**

  * For [oncewewerezombies](https://archiveofourown.org/users/oncewewerezombies/gifts).



> Gratutious hatefucking and femdom please! Definitely a black quadrant fill, but mostly I want to see Cronus out of his comfort zone and Latula and Porrim being hatefriends and dealing with the greaser on their own terms, in their own ways. Cronus should definitely get the worst of it.

Across the table, Cronus Ampora stares at the two of you like he can't quite believe what his fins are picking up. You maintain a calm expression, and wait for him to sort out the rest of his thinkpan from the rainwater aggregation gully it has inevitably fallen into.

"So this would be like—"

"A one time thing, most likely," you say, cutting him off before he has a chance to consider it going any further. "Consider it a test run. A probation period that is unlikely to end in a pass."

His fins flick, distractedly—distracted, you try not to notice the way Latula zeros in on them. This isn't yet the time, although it will very likely be the place. "Right, yeah, I got that. Not what I meant to ask about, Maryam."

You'll give him this much, he doesn't seem  _too_  put off by the thought that you and Latula might merely be using him as a convenient bulge. Or a chance to work out some of your...frustrations with his behavior. "What  _did_  you mean to ask about, then?"

He smirks, and those fins—you'd swear he does this on purpose, to draw attention back to them—sweep out wide. "If this was gonna be some BDSM type shit."

Ah. Now that's the type of question you can really sink your teeth into.

 

* * *

 

Of all the things you can say about Latula Pyrope, you are nearly certain this is true: she has a hell of a way with a rope, and even more of one with her hands. Your casual hatemance has given you firsthand experience with both, and with Cronus' eager assent to being fucked into compliance, she's demonstrating, once more, exactly how skillful she is.

You're beginning to have regrets. One of these is your choice of underwear.

(You also regret your bulge's fondness for twisting around and twining into anything made of lace.)

When Latula finishes her work, she steps back, looking Ampora over with a practiced eye. "I'll give him this much, he takes pain like a champ."

"Thank you," says the bound seadweller on the floor, and Latula picks up the silk violet scraps he'd called  _underwear_  and shoves them into his mouth.

"Much better," she says, and jerks her head at the rafters, waiting ropes hanging down from them. "Do we want him suspended, or nah?"

 

You haven't stopped watching his reactions. At Latula's—offer? Threat? You're not sure—a shudder went down his spine. You have a feeling that pain isn't the only thing he takes well. "I think we want him suspended. 'Helpless' seems to be a decent look on him."

With your help, Latula gets him secured in the newest set of ropes, and he lets out a low moan through the silk she'd stuffed into his mouth. "Holy fuck. He really is needy—you know he'd already slicked that shit, when I picked it up? Haha, goddamn."

You're completely unsurprised, but he whines at Latula's commentary, his fins canting down in a signal you know—humiliation.

It's not the one you're looking for—well, it  _is_ , but not one you're  _concerned_  about—so instead of easing off, you wrap a hand around his horn and yank his head up. "I don't believe we asked for your opinion, violet." He immediately shuts up, proving your earlier assumption right: Cronus Ampora takes orders really,  _really_  well.

You could get used to seadweller matriarchal tendencies. You could get used to having Cronus Ampora at your beck and call.

And when you glance overtop his suspended form to Latula's eager expression, you're pretty damn sure that the same could be said for her.

 

* * *

 

Your casual hatemate sets a timer. When it goes off, at a time she and Ampora had calculated together, based on her experience with bondage and his experience with seadweller stamina, you'll need to get him down from those ropes. Neither of you made any promises of  _stopping_ , after that point, but he hadn't seemed to care. He's in this for the filled pail, as much as you're in this for a chance to tear someone to shreds.

Ankles to his thighs. Forearms to forearms. It's accurate, but simplifying it down that much is almost an insult to Latula's work.

She had asked what grade of rope would be best, and his cocky answer had her settling on her strongest, color-coded to be a rich seadweller's hue. Even if it weren't for those, you're pretty damn sure he wouldn't be getting out any time soon. Even if weren't for  _that_ , you're pretty sure he doesn't  _want_  to.

You intend to take full advantage of that fact.

 

_We're not going to prep you_ , you warned him.  _If you don't think you can handle it, prep yourself before you arrive._ He hadn't minded the thought of getting pailed raw, apparently, or hadn't taken your threat seriously enough. Either way, his bulge was still neatly inside its sheath, as yours curled against his nook, and you smirked across him, as Latula tugged his head up by the horns. 

She groans, at your expression. "He didn't bother getting ready, did he."

"He'll learn," you say, and shove the length of your bulge inside him.

It turns out that there is, in fact, a third option: he knew he'd get wet enough to take whatever you gave him.

 

A shudder rolls right along his body and he  _moans_  through that underwear again, low and loud, as the piercings in your bulge drag against the walls of his nook. You'll give him this as well: he definitely knows how to be pretty, when he remembers to shut up.

Speaking of—you're not sure Latula taking the ostentatiously silken underwear out of his mouth (you're pretty sure you saw his sign  _embroidered_  onto the waistband) is a good idea. Before you can protest, she's gotten something else—something rather more filling, and a sight more teal—stuffing his mouth shut. Never mind you, your hatefriend is fucking  _brilliant._

"And brilliant at fucking too," you murmur, as Latula flashes you a grin in response. She'll have to guess at the other half of the joke, but you're pretty sure she knows you well enough by now.

Around her bulge, he whines. She shifts her hips, in a movement you know far too well, and he chokes on her bulge. "Fuck," she murmurs, then jerks her head over towards the mirror you'd set up. "Look at his throat."

You do. It's stretched out around her bulge, and his fins are fluttering like he's loving absolutely every second of this.

You immediately resolve to break him.

 

Claws cut into skin easily, until they bleed him violet and salt, leave him shuddering under you as you lean across him to kiss Latula. Your own jade hue looks as good on her as it always does, and she pushes further forwards—leaving him to choke, to writhe as much as the ropes will allow between you—inviting fangs and claws into the kiss and caress. For a moment, you're lost, unsure of what she wants.

Then she cuts her own lip open on one of your pointed fangs and you taste sweet teal on your tongue.

From there, you leave a trail of marks, down her throat. When you finally stop to drink, properly, she makes a noise you're well acquainted with, and her hips jerk, fucking deep down Ampora's throat in one off-beat motion as she adjusts to the pure bliss of a rainbowdrinker's bite. Before he can raise more than a whine of complaint, she's caught your rhythm again, and increased it, as she draws closer and closer—a stutter, and she pours her color down his throat, his gills flaring out as his secondary system takes up the oxygen load.

You release her, before you take more than she could reasonably give in the middle of pailing an arrogant jackass raw, and she stumbles back, her bulge pulling messily from his throat, as she slumps against the upright eating board you'd meant to lower him onto. Eventually.

He coughs up teal, stained a deeper blue by the violet running through him, and  _yelps_  as your jerk the ropes binding him, slamming him back against you. "If you were meant to spit it up," you inform him, "she wouldn't have poured it down your throat. Do you understand?"

Instead of speaking, he chirps a reply. Good boy. He's finally starting to learn.

 

* * *

 

By the time you and Latula get him stretched out on the table, the ropes undone, his needy nook properly fucked and seedflap properly filled, he's whimpering again. There's a slight curve to his stomach—you have yet to let him near a pail—and the toy you'd shoved into him is vibrating on the lowest setting, leaving him unable to retract his bulge, unable to reach the high you'd both denied him. He will, as you'd told him, multiple times before and after you'd started this fun little adventure, need to earn that privilege.

So far, he hasn't.

 

Rope is traded for padded cuffs, suspension for the eating board bindings so soft that they whisper over the skin like silk, like baby purrbeast fur. He's nearly purring as you put him into them, and you press down on his stomach until he cries out to remind him that this isn't about him, and isn't  _going_  to be about him. He gets it. His mouth shuts.

Latula stretches out a crick in her neck, once she's done, and you frown, tugging her in closer and prodding at the knots in her shoulders. "Hm. We should really get these taken care of, before we continue."

His mouth opens again. You fix him with a glare, and he doesn't say anything, even if he doesn't immediately close it.

Against you, Latula has begun to purr. "If you're offering a massage, you  _know_  I am all about that action. Slumber platform?"

"Sounds good to me. I'll meet you there." Your hatedate bounds off, leaving you alone with a seadweller who's getting increasingly squirmy. "We'll be back when we're back. You remember your safeword?"

For a second, he looks like he's about to talk. You  _see_  him catch himself, remember his place. And he nods.

"Damn," you breathe, looking his wrecked body over. "I think you're finally starting to get it."

It's almost enough to make you want to stay.

 

* * *

 

Instead, you join Latula on the slumber platform. She's sprawled out with reckless abandon, caught in the throes of a brief nap. You settle on joining her, taking up exactly half of the slumber platform, as is your due.

When she wakes, a half hour or so later, you're already up, flipping through one of the gamer mags she and Mituna leave strewn about their hive even on a "neat" day. Latula makes a rude noise and tugs it out of your hand with a rather accusatory air. "I was promised a massage?"

"I assumed you'd want to be awake for it," you reply, and shift to let her roll onto her stomach.

 

Gradually, you become aware of quiet noise coming from the other block. The two of you exchange a look, and you finish working the knots out of her shoulders and back, rolling off of her to retrieve water bottles for you both. "Shall we check on him, then?"

"I  _suppose_ ," she says, stretching out with a sigh. She'd gotten back into her own underwear, a cute teal pair edged with crimson red. "If his attitude hasn't improved any, I say we leave him until sunrise."

"Deal," you say, picking up a robe—hers, judging by the lack of lovingly stitched bulges—and belting it around your waist. The admiring once over she gives you is flattering enough to delay your return a little. She looks  _good_ , pinned up against the wall, her thighs around your hips as you kiss her until her lip's bruised once more.

By the time you're done, the noises from the main block have gotten increasingly more desperate. You'd fault him for it if it wasn't so damn pretty, and if he didn't already have enough other faults to make this one secondary and unimportant.

 

When he sees the two of you coming back into the room, he shuts up, and you take a moment to admire the progress.

His thighs are coated liberally in violet and jade slurry, his mouth, his face, painted with teal. There's a fine sheen over his skin, exertion given tangible form, and his hair's already a mess, curling away from his usual ridiculous sweep. Fins canted down, eyes hazy, half-lidded—he's a wreck, and judging by the way his hips keep jerking up, even as he tries to hold them still, the way his gills flare, he's well on his way to being completely ruined. Judging by the way he's trembling, still so needy and so very on edge, he still hasn't gotten to finish.

Not bad, for half an hour (or so) alone.

Most of your slurry's already leaked out of him—slowly, judging by the size of that toy up his nook—and when Latula pulls it out from between his thighs, the rest spills out in a sluggishly humiliating gush. He makes a desperate, breathy little sound, and you nearly  _purr._

"Get the rest of it out."

Latula makes a rude noise at you, but obeys. Her hand on his stomach, the slightest amount of pressure, is all it takes. Deep green, streaked with violet, pours out of him, and he twists in the chains, ragged gasps in place of his usual even breathing, his hips jolting at the emptiness of his nook being compounded by the sudden emptiness in his seedflap.

You're looking forward to dragging him back and forth across this fine line as many times as you feel like it. The positively predatory bent of Latula's attention to him says the same of her, and you smirk, at the way he looks up at her, all wide-eyed and vulnerable. You hadn't quite realized how well seadwellers broke down before this, but now you're starting to wonder if this is a common trait across their kind.

Or if there's any way you can test that theory out any time soon.

 

You keep him on his back for this round, stretched out across solid wood in the gentlest bindings this bubble affords, as you trade places. He seems startled, when you begin pressing kisses over his skin, leaving behind black-jade-teal prints in your wake. When you bite down, he starts—and relaxes, shuddering, as pleasure takes the place of whatever pain he might have felt.

Violet is as delicious as your linemate had informed you. His reactions are almost even more so.

"Perhaps we should stop," you murmur to Latula, wiping your mouth. "He looks like he's about to spill, I'm a little worried that we might not be able to hold off his climax much longer."

She hums to herself, looking him over. He's too far gone to even plead for his own finish, his body a canvas of much-enjoyed abuse. "I say we take things in the other direction. Denial to overstimulation."

Your eyes light up—okay. You won't lie. That's one of the things you enjoy the most, in situations like this, and he  _had_  given you free rein here.

(He'd also returned the list you and Latula had compiled of possible occurrences with his own notes on it. This particular kink—along with denial—had been circled in sparkly violet.)

 

* * *

 

Ampora gives a quiet, startled chirp, at the feeling of hands on him again. It's cute, the way he tries to look at you, and amusing, the way he can't seem to focus long enough to track your movements. Really—he's much more fucking tolerable when he's too broken to talk.

Latula returns before long, with the toy box she keeps somewhere that you're not even allowed to know the location of. You'd mind more if she didn't have a hoard to rival your own, and Ampora's wide eyes go increasingly so as she lifts his bulge up—clinically, almost—and pushes something into the tight space left in his sheath. Nonstick bondage tape leaves the toy's remote attached to his thigh, and when she taps on the underside of his sheath, he nearly screams. "It's not even  _on_ ," she says, and he whimpers, as his scattered mind seems to start piecing together what's about to happen.

Good.

 

Another toy, rings loose enough to let him pail, but tight enough to keep vibrations on him, goes on his bulge. This time, he holds as still as possible, as if he's bracing, waiting, for one of you to turn it on. You don't, and he starts to relax, until Latula begins pushing bullet vibes into his nook. After the first two, she turns to you with a frown. "How many do you think?"

"He took my whole bulge in one go, and your biggest toy." Latula has a good bit of width on you, but you've definitely got the longer bulge—he'll be able to handle her, and a bit more besides. "How about...six?"

"Evil," she muses, then smirks down at him. "Four. I've only got a few more of these anyway. What did he say about his gills again?"

"He didn't mark them off limits, but you're very much in danger of becoming a hypocrite on the 'evil' front, I hope you know."

Latula's grin only widens, and you roll your eyes, taking up the toys she hands you. It seems like this isn't the first time she's tangled with a seadweller, judging by the careful instructions she gives you, speaking with an easy confidence that makes you wonder who else let her have a go at some of their most sensitive apparatuses.

Ampora, in this case, does not even try to resist.

 

And you still don't turn anything on.

 

You're beginning to see the desperation in his eyes, as he waits, waits, for the two of you to finish with him—finish him, by starting something he can't handle—but it only serves to add fuel to the fire. He's not going anywhere any time soon. He's not getting free any time soon.

Perhaps— _perhaps_ —if the two of you decide to feel merciful, he'll get something else, very, very soon.

When Latula gives you the signal that she's finished up on her end of things, you take your place at his mouth again, stroking over the soft skin—avoiding the gills, already opened up somewhat to take an appropriately sized vibrator—to encourage his mouth open. He barely needs it, judging by the way he falls all over himself to take you in, to service you. You'd be amused, if you weren't so  _ready_ for this.

Like this, it's harder to see his face, but he doesn't seem to mind it, doesn't seem to be interested in protesting the way your bulge fills and stretches his throat, or how Latula is keeping him spread open. Part of you is somewhat annoyed. You'd been looking forward to breaking him properly, taking him apart and showing him how he  _ought_  to behave, but he's doing so well so far that you can't quite find it in you to complain.

 

The odd-looking gadget that Latula's holding pulls you out of your musings, and you frown at her, tilting your head in an unspoken question.

She grins in response, and sets it down on the sharp plane of his stomach—still twitching and jumping as he desperately tries not to fuck himself on the air—before slowly,  _slowly_ , pushes her bulge into him. From here, you can see her expressions change as she works herself into him, careful with and around the vibrators still buried inside him, bound carefully to his skin.

"Ready, Maryam?"

 You're not sure you are, but you nod anyway.

She picks up the gadget—controller—again, and taps something in.

 

When she turns everything on, for a moment, you think you've killed him again. All at once, he comes undone, choking around the length of your bulge as his secondary breathing system is disrupted by the vibrators that suddenly come on, inside him, on him, against him—in his  _gills_ , his nook, against his clit and bulge—and spasming around Latula.

Both of you watch his fins, for any sign that he might need to, want to, tap out—instead, he fairly  _wails_  as he hits his high and keeps running right into the next one. You take that as permission, your bulge twisting inside him, your hips starting to move as you fuck deeper into his throat. From the way his body jumps, you're fairly sure Latula takes it the same way too.

He shudders through his next climax, and the little noises are grounded into your bulge in a way that drags you inexorably to your own high. Before you know it, you're on the edge of spilling jade, and Latula is the one leaning across him to draw you into a kiss. "On him," she insists.

It's your turn to obey, pulling out of him in one smooth motion and painting all of him in your color, your slurry. Under you, he moans, his throat rough with both you and Latula, and you kiss your sometimes hatemate across the way, as she yanks him down against her and mixes teal blue into the remnants of your color and his, still left inside him.

 

* * *

 

Hours later—but not very many—most of the clean up's done. Cronus had been somewhat startled that you two had insisted on aftercare all around (so long as he behaved himself), but he'd been too wiped to do speak much, or do anything but chirp and trill up at you both. You'd gotten all the slurry off and out of him, before carefully dropping him into a proper seadweller's bath, saltwater and a gill-safe bathbomb, and made sure he'd had more than enough water to make up everything he'd lost.

_I don't get it,_  he'd said, looking up from the tub, drenched, his fins all aflutter.

_It's what you do_ , Latula replied, and got back to cleaning out his gills with saltwater.

He'd stopped talking after that, and by the time everything was done, seadweller stamina kicked in again, and he waved off offers of a lift back to his own hive, sauntering off into the dream bubbles alone.

You'd grinned at Latula, who smirked back. Some progress there, perhaps.

 

The table and main room were ignored in favor of piling into a heap of pillows accumulated for just such a purpose. By the time the two of you woke up, either the bubble would have refreshed itself enough to clean up, or you'd be rested enough to handle the task anyway.

"He was much better behaved than what I expected," you muse, as you shift a little closer to Latula, who tugs a snuggleplane up over you.

She shrugs, and plants a smacking kiss on one of your horns to make you hiss at her. "Talks a big game, can't follow it through without turning into a needy little bitch. Seen it before."

You hum to yourself, looping an arm around her for further cuddles. "Perhaps next time we can coax him into following it through long enough to break out a belt or a cane."

Latula grins at you, and settles against your shoulder. "I like the way you think."


End file.
